


BIKM Bingo #002

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: BIKM bingo February entries February '21@Hailie (HailHailSatan)@BlueJayCalling (Ren)@geralt's ample bosom (walli)Team The Best Team: "Weshouldcan do it!"
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Anonymous





	1. paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Anything More
> 
> Author: @BlueJayCalling (Ren)
> 
> Prompt: Paper
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
> 
> Tags: Fluff, Love Confessions, Bad Poetry, Pre-Relationship

Paper, verb

Archaic.

a. to write or set down on paper.

b. to describe in writing.

***

Geralt found it unnerving, at least at first, the way Jaskier would suddenly take out his notebook and start jotting things down. Even when it seemed most appropriate, like at the end of an eventful day or on the rare occasion that the Witcher would open up and share stories about his most harrowing contracts, there was something about the bard’s behavior while he was writing that made Geralt feel… a sort of way. And he wasn’t sure exactly why.

It might have been the way he stuck out his tongue ever so slightly, or how his eyes, such a stunning blue, would grow wide as they glanced up from the pages. Or maybe his eye contact was just a bit too intense. But after a while, Geralt rarely thought much of it. It was just Jaskier being Jaskier, and it didn’t mean anything more than that.

Geralt noticed, at least at first, when the bard’s bursts of inspiration became more frequent. Sometimes, on a peaceful night, the blessed silence would be broken by a flurry of activity as Jaskier reached into his pack for his notebook and began to write as if his life depended on it. Geralt reasoned that it did, what with him being a bard and all. 

The Witcher would stay quiet and pretend he wasn’t aware that the poet was glancing up at him from across the campfire, his eyes too wide and too blue and too intense, his gaze lingering on him for a little too long. He told himself he didn’t think anything of the way the tip of the balladeer’s tongue would dart out from his mouth as he returned his attention to whatever it was he was writing. It was just Jaskier being Jaskier, and it didn’t mean anything more than that.

It took a while - years, in fact - before Geralt’s curiosity got the best of him and he absolutely needed to know what the bard was writing so passionately about. The opportunity to find out presented itself one evening when Jaskier briefly stepped away from their camp, leaving his notebook out and unattended. 

Geralt was shocked, at least at first, when he opened it and discovered that the writer’s greatest muse was none other than the White Wolf himself.

_ “I tried telling him he’d get a warmer reception from the townsfolk if he’d stop scowling all the time. He just scowled at me. I don’t think he was listening,” _ one line read. 

And another:  _ “He really doesn’t know how magnificent he is. And he calls  _ _ me _ _ stupid.” _

And on another page:  _ “I know he thinks he’s not much different from the monsters he hunts, but he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Either he’s wrong or I am, and I’m never wrong when it comes to judging beauty.” _

So far, Geralt chalked it up to Jaskier being Jaskier, and it didn’t mean anything more than that. 

And then he kept reading. 

_ “Who could love a monster  _

_ With skin as pale as death _

_ And eyes that glow like molten amber?  _

_ What kind of fool would try _

_ To pursue him across the Continent  _

_ Until they draw their final breath? _

_ What kind of fool would dare love him?  _

_ What kind of fool am I?” _

The poem made Geralt feel… a sort of way, one that he had denied for far too long. It was impossible to ignore now that he knew his bard felt the same.

When Jaskier came back to their camp, he didn’t notice, at least not at first, that Geralt was in possession of his notebook. It wasn’t until the Witcher recited, out of nowhere, “Who could love a monster...” that the bard looked over with horror in eyes and saw it sitting open in Geralt’s lap. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean for you to read that,” the poet stuttered, his face turning as red as the sunset. 

“Were you going to make this into a song?” Geralt asked.

“No, of course not,” Jaskier answered defensively. “It’s just… Look, Geralt, sometimes poetry is just poetry, and it doesn’t mean anything.”

Geralt let out a low growl as he closed the notebook, then stood up to walk over to the flustered bard who stared at him as he approached, piercing blue eyes wide with fear. The Witcher stooped to gently put the poet’s book back down on top of his other things before he came face to face with Jaskier. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, bringing up his hand. Jaskier flinched, expecting to be slapped, but was shocked to instead find a large, calloused hand cupping his face. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it.”

“I…” For once, the bard was at a loss for words. “Do you  _ want _ me to mean it?” 

Geralt responded with a slight nod. 

“Then, in that case, I do.”

“You really are a fool. To  _ love _ … me,” Geralt said, struggling to use the word ‘love’ in a sentence talking about himself. He started to pull his hand away, but Jaskier caught hold of it.

“Perhaps. But I’d be a bigger fool if I didn't,” the bard said, and pressed his lips against Geralt’s knuckles. “So now that you know how I feel, does it mean anything to you?”

Geralt answered with his actions before his words, embracing Jaskier and holding him close. “It means everything to me.”

  
  



	2. breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Hint, A Whisper
> 
> Author: @BlueJayCalling (Ren)
> 
> Prompt: Breath
> 
> Pairing: Eskel/Geralt
> 
> Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Trial of the Grasses, Soft Witchers, Young Witchers

Breath, noun

respiration, especially as necessary to life

a slight suggestion, hint, or whisper

***

After he went through the Trial of Grasses, Geralt spoke less. There were days following the second round of Trials that he didn’t speak at all. On the quiet days, Eskel longed for their silly banter and their jokes. But it was the quiet nights that made him miss Geralt’s old talkative nature the most. 

Geralt used to be vocal in bed, telling Eskel what he wanted, praising him for being such a good lover, and describing everything he found sexy about Eskel’s body in explicit detail. The last time he did that was the night before the Trials began, when neither of them knew if they would survive the days to come.

Miraculously, they both did, though it was a close call. Geralt recovered early, far earlier than expected, and he overheard a rumor that Eskel might not make it. He demanded to see his “friend” - as if the entire school didn’t know the truth by now - and nearly battered the door down as he roared profanities at the mages on the other side. When they relented and allowed him to sit at Eskel's bedside, he was relieved to find his lover still breathing, and though transformed, still beautiful.

“Eskel,” Geralt said, taking the older boy’s hand into his. “I’m here.”

“I know,” Eskel whispered between labored breaths, his eyes still closed. “I could smell you when you came in.”

Geralt chuckled softly, and right away, Eskel sensed that something had changed. His laugh had lost most of its warmth. “I guess with our enhanced sense of smell, we’ll have to take more baths from now on,” he joked. 

“No need,” Eskel said quietly. “Just do me a favor and don’t talk so loudly. My ears haven’t adjusted yet.”

Eskel later regretted making that request. He’d rather have a headache from hearing Geralt’s voice than the heartache of not hearing it at all. 

When Geralt came back from his second go at the Trials, Eskel quickly acclimated to the white hair, but it was the reticence that he couldn’t take. After a week of barely speaking and of lovemaking that was more like beasts rutting, he finally said something to Geralt.

“If we’re done, just say so.”

The other boy looked confused and hurt, but didn’t say anything back.

“It’s not what I want, but at least you’d be talking to me.”

The young white-haired Witcher sighed. “What do you want me to say?” It was his first full sentence in a few days, and the last for a couple more.

“Anything at all at this point,” Eskel said with a shrug. 

“I… can’t. Doesn’t mean I don’t want...” Geralt gave up trying to finish the thought and groaned, frustrated with himself and his lack of words. He buried his face in his hands, realizing for the first time that he could no longer produce tears.

Eskel pulled Geralt into his arms. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

And they did. With time, Eskel came to learn what all of Geralt’s grunts and groans and sighs and breaths meant. Even after speech came easier to the White Wolf, Eskel often knew what his lover was going to say before he even said it.

He knew the deep hum that hinted at “I want your cock in my mouth,” the huff that foretold Geralt’s pleas of “just like that, don’t stop” and the gasp of breath that came before “you have the most perfect ass.” 

Maybe it wasn’t the most practical application of his acute hearing, but to Eskel, it was certainly the most fun.

  
  
  



	3. skate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Obfuscation Situation
> 
> Author: @BlueJayCalling (Ren)
> 
> Prompt: Skate
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
> 
> Tags: Fluff, Mild Injury, Witcher Senses, Established Relationship, Dom/sub overtones

Skate, verb

(~over/around): to pass over or refer only fleetingly to (a subject or problem)

***

Geralt was used to contracts not always going as planned. This time, the problem was a nest of wyverns. To be more precise, it wasn’t the _ nest _ of wyverns that had caused the trouble. Geralt made quick, efficient work of eliminating the beasts and reassured the villagers that their livestock would be safe.

The problem was the _ single  _ wyvern that got away, unbeknownst to Geralt, making off with another sheep. That was the alderman’s justification for giving Geralt only a fraction of the agreed-upon reward, insisting he was being generous by paying him anything at all.

Out of a sense of duty and need for coin, the Witcher offered to slay the remaining wyvern the following day if he could get the entire amount he was promised. The alderman said he would consider it.

So the next morning, Geralt left for the wyvern’s nest, and Jaskier went to help the alderman think it over. 

That afternoon, when Geralt returned to the inn after successfully vanquishing the last wyvern, he was surprised to find the bard not only in their room, but sitting up in bed, legs outstretched in front of him as he jotted something down in his notebook.

“Did you talk to the alderman?” Geralt asked.

“I did,” Jaskier answered, looking up from his writing. “The negotiations went well. He agreed to pay you the full amount.”

Geralt hummed his approval. “He didn’t give you any trouble?”

“The alderman? No.  _ He _ didn’t give me any trouble at all.”

“Hm.” If Geralt hadn’t already suspected there was something amiss, the poet’s tone would have given it away. “So what’d you do with the rest of your day?”

Jaskier furrowed his brow, wondering why Geralt was suddenly curious about how his day went. “Not much,” he answered with a shrug. “Took a stroll. Had an… interesting…  _ interaction _ with some of the townsfolk. Came back here.”

“Interaction, hm? That’s a big word that means little. What kind of  _ interaction _ ?” Geralt asked, mocking the bard’s intonation of the word.

_ Since when do you ask so many questions? _ is what Jaskier wanted to say back, annoyed that of all the times he could have taken an interest, it had to be now. “I’ll just say they had some choice words about you and how you dealt with the wyverns. But honestly, Geralt-”

“What’d they do to you?”

Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh. “Nothing.  _ They _ did nothing. Anyway-”

“So you’re okay. You’ll be fine to leave tomorrow?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Hm. It’s still early enough that we could set off now. It’s only a couple hours’ walk to the nearest safe place to camp for the night.”

“Sure.” Jaskier swallowed a lump in his throat. “Or, alternatively, we could stay another night. But no, no, you’re right. We could leave now. Really, we should. It’s not like we’re welcome here anyway. Go get Roach and I’ll meet you outside. I’ll just talk to the innkeeper about maybe getting our money back for tonight, and then we can-”

“Jaskier, you’re babbling. What’s the matter with you?” Geralt growled.

“What makes you think there’s something wrong?”

“Several things. Did you forget I can smell it when you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset!” the bard hollered, proving Geralt’s point. “I just…”

“Spit it out, bard!” Geralt barked. “You’re always telling me to use my words, now use yours. Stop skating around it and tell me.”

“I just don’t understand why people are so afraid of you. Or why they would hate you. And when they have nasty things to say about you, it hurts me,” Jaskier pouted.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. He’d rarely admit it out loud, but the disgust and contempt most humans had toward him pained him as well. “But that’s not all, is it? Guess you forgot I can smell pain, too.” Ignoring Jaskier’s feigned look of innocence, the Witcher asked again, calmly but insistently, “What did they do to you?”

The poet let out a nervous chuckle. “I told you, they didn’t do anything. I-”

Before he could finish the sentence, Geralt had already sussed out what was wrong. He’d been paying close attention to Jaskier’s body language since the moment he noticed the odor of pain radiating off of him, watching how he moved and how he didn’t. But the dead giveaway was that the bard was laying on the bed with his boots on, something that he constantly berated Geralt for doing because it made the blankets filthy with grass and mud and monster guts.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked, even though it was obvious. The Witcher climbed on to the foot of the bed and started undoing the balladeer’s left boot. “Don’t, please…” he whined, trying his best to not wince as Geralt removed his boot as carefully as possible.

Geralt examined Jaskier’s bruised and swollen ankle, then gave the bard a stern look. “Explain.”

Jaskier sighed. “One of the villagers was quite irate about what happened to his sheep, and he wouldn’t listen to reason. He came after me with a pitchfork. A  _ pitchfork _ ! So I ran. I almost made it safely back here when I tripped- Ow!” he cried as Geralt gently manipulated his injured foot. “It’s not broken, is it?”

“No,” Geralt answered, and Jaskier exhaled loudly in relief. “But you’re still going to need to give it time to heal. You can ride Roach until we get to the next town where you can rest a while, since we can’t stay here.” 

“We can stay tonight, can’t we? The room’s already paid for.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, and suddenly he had an idea. “We might as well make the most of it. First, let me patch you up,” he said and went to get his medical kit.

“What do you mean-” Jaskier started to ask something, but Geralt came back over to the bed and kissed him deeply. As he slid his tongue into the soft warmth of the balladeer’s mouth, he imagined where else he would feel that velvety heat later.

When he pulled away, the poet stayed silent as he tried to catch his breath. He never took his gaze off of Geralt as he sat back down on bed and made quick, efficient work of wrapping his injured ankle. Still dazed by the sudden kiss and distracted by the unusually tender and attentive Witcher, he didn’t even notice how aroused he was. 

But Geralt did. The bard’s emotions weren’t the only thing his keen nose could detect, and he could already smell the salty tang of precum. He got up and moved to sit next to Jaskier and pressed his palm against the poet’s hardened length. 

Jaskier let out a soft moan as his cock twitched against the touch. “Geralt,” he mewled, “What’s this all about?” Not that he was complaining.

“You stood up for me, so I’m going to reward you,” Geralt purred into Jaskier’s ear as he continued to rub his bard’s cock through his fine silk trousers. “But you foolishly tried to lie to me, so I have to punish you, too.” 

“What’s the reward?” the poet asked, then whimpered again. 

“I’m going to let you cum.”

“Dare I ask, what’s the punishment?”

“Well, it’s only the afternoon and we have the room until tomorrow morning. Who knows how long I’ll make you wait?”

  
  



	4. memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: That Which Pleases Me Most
> 
> Author: @BlueJayCalling (Ren)
> 
> Prompt: Memory
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
> 
> Tags: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Post-Episode S01E06: Rare Species

Memory, noun

the state or fact of being remembered

a mental impression retained; a recollection

the reputation of a person or thing, especially after death

***

Geralt always assumed he would run into Jaskier again eventually. He would be loath to call it destiny, but the bard had a way of tumbling back into his life too frequently and under the strangest of circumstances to be purely by happenstance. The biggest gap between their reunions tended to be a couple of years at most, but by Geralt’s estimate, the last time he saw Jaskier was at least five years ago, if not more.

For the first year or so after the dragon hunt and the incident on the mountain, Geralt didn’t even consider trying to track down his old friend. He was completely occupied with the task of protecting and caring for Ciri. That didn’t mean he didn’t think about Jaskier, though. 

In fact, Geralt would frequently ruminate over the last time they spoke, how they parted on such bad terms, and how it had been entirely his fault, despite the unfair accusations he hurled at the balladeer at the time. Every time he played back the memory in his mind, his heart ached with regret. And although he knew he wasn’t supposed to, because Witchers should need no one, he missed Jaskier. He  _ needed _ him and all of the sunshine and song that came with him.

Once Ciri was safely in the care of Nenneke and Yennefer, Geralt set off on the Path again. And because his Path crossed so often with Jaskier’s, he didn’t actively try to look for him. He just always figured the bard would show up somewhere unexpectedly. And then Geralt would apologize for everything. 

When fate or coincidence failed to return Jaskier to him after several years, Geralt started to seek him out. He went to Oxenfurt and asked around, but no one at the university had heard from him in years. He checked the concert halls and theaters and taverns in every city he went to, yet he found no sign of the balladeer anywhere. The last place he looked was the last place he thought Jaskier, with all of his wanderlust, would ever be: his home town. 

Geralt knew the bard was of noble birth, from Lettenhove in the minor kingdom of Kerack. He hoped that if something had happened to Jaskier, at least his family would know. The Witcher was on his way to what locals had told him was Jaskier’s childhood home when he happened to pass the family burial grounds. 

Perhaps it was the beauty of the garden, or maybe it was destiny that beckoned for Geralt to enter. It didn’t take long for him to find himself standing before a simple but elegantly designed stone memorial that read:

_ In Loving Memory of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, 1222- _

Geralt turned and walked away, got back on Roach, and left Kerack. He had his answer: Jaskier was gone.

***

A little while later, a contract regarding a succubus brought Geralt to the city of Novigrad. Having taken care of the succubus situation, he stepped into a tavern, the Rosemary and Thyme, for a well-earned drink. 

Learning of Jaskier’s fate didn’t stop him from thinking about the poet often, replaying their final conversation over and over in his mind. He could still clearly recall the hurt in Jaskier’s voice, and now, three drinks deep and full of self-loathing, he swore he could smell the bard’s signature cologne. 

It was a cloying scent, “Nuits de Beauclair,” that assaulted Geralt’s superhuman senses whenever Jaskier wore it. But this was no memory, he realized. Someone in the tavern was wearing it, and they were standing right behind him.  _ He’s dead _ , he reminded himself as he turned around to face whoever it was.  _ It can’t be- _

“Jaskier,” he said in disbelief.

“It’s Dandelion now,” the bard said, blue eyes twinkling with the spark that the Witcher so desperately missed. “But yes, Geralt, it’s me.” 

Geralt looked the balladeer up and down, and though he looked a little different with facial hair and longer locks, it didn’t appear as if he’d aged a day since they last saw each other. He looked not just alive but radiant, and most importantly, happy.

“I thought you were dead.”

Dandelion chuckled. “Well, obviously I’m not.”

“But the memorial in Kerack-”

“Oh, that. Well.” The bard smiled at Geralt sheepishly. “After the, um, the last time we traveled together, I took some time to consider what pleases me. And I sort of… disappeared for a while,” he said, gesticulating as he spoke. “My family assumed that I was deceased and erected that memorial that you saw. But clearly, I’m very much alive.”

“Yeah. I see that.” The Witcher went quiet for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Jaskier-”

“Dandelion,” the bard corrected him.

“Dandelion,” Geralt repeated. “I’m sorry for what I said all those years ago. I asked for life to give me one blessing, but it had already given me one, and I threw it- I threw  _ you _ away. I’ve missed you.”

“Apology accepted, but it’s unnecessary. I was devastated at the time, but if you hadn't sent me off on my own that day, I might have-” He sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I figured out what pleases me,” he said, grinning. “Fine art, fine wine, and the company of fine people. And now that I own this place,” he said with a dramatic flourish, “I have everything I want.” 

“Good. I’m… happy for you.” Geralt smiled bittersweetly. It turned out that while he was suffering all these years with a Jaskier-shaped void in his life, his bard was doing just fine without him.

“But I will say, I have been sorely missing that which pleases me most.”

“What’s that?”

The bard threw his head back and laughed, thoroughly amused by how oblivious Geralt still was. “Don’t you know, and didn’t you always? It’s you, dear Witcher. You absolute fool.”

  
  
  



	5. feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Made to Be There
> 
> Author: @BlueJayCalling (Ren)
> 
> Prompt: Feeling
> 
> Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier
> 
> Tags: Fluff

Feeling, noun

the function or the power of perceiving by touch

capacity for emotion, especially compassion

sympathetic appreciation, as of music

emotion or sympathetic perception revealed by an artist in his or her work

****

“Great performance tonight,” Eskel said, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. “Like always,” he added with a grin.

Jaskier tried to repress a yawn and failed. “Thank you, darling,” he said with a sleepy smile. Unlike Geralt, Eskel had nothing but praise for the bard’s singing. And also unlike Geralt, he listened. Every note, every chord, every lyric, he heard it, including when the balladeer was so full of emotion that his voice almost broke.

“The second-to-last song, though…” Eskel helped the exhausted bard out of his doublet and turned his attention away from him ever so briefly to hang up the expensive silk garment. “Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful. But you sounded like you were about to cry. You okay?”

Jaskier hummed. Mostly because he was too tired to speak, but also partly because he picked up some of the White Wolf’s habits after all of those years together. “I’m fine. Just worn out.”

Eskel placed his large hand ever so gently on Jaskier’s shoulder. “You miss him, I know.” There was no jealousy in his voice, only sympathy. “I’m not hurt. I just don’t want you to be either.”

_ Him _ . Geralt. 

Several months after he and Jaskier parted ways for good, Eskel ran into the bard at a tavern not too unlike the one they were staying at. The Witcher recognized the flamboyantly dressed musician sitting at the bar, staring dolefully into his drink, and approached to ask him what was wrong. Not knowing any better, he inquired about Geralt, and between sobs, the very drunk and despondent poet told him the whole story. 

Too inebriated to walk straight, Jaskier required Eskel’s assistance to get to his room. That was the first time Eskel helped the bard get undressed. It just became a habit after that. 

Eskel’s plan was to get Jaskier in bed and leave, but the musician was just so good at derailing plans. So Eskel stayed. 

Out of respect, he laid down on the floor, only moving to the bed at Jaskier’s insistence. He tried to make his massive body as small as possible to not encroach on Jaskier’s personal space, just to have the bard scoot closer to put his head on his shoulder, cuddle against his side, and drape his arm across his waist. It was the first time Eskel felt someone touch him like that in years. 

But it certainly wasn’t the last. Whenever there was an opportunity, Jaskier’s hands were somewhere on Eskel’s body. It was like they were made to be there. At this particular moment, he was stroking the Witcher’s cheek with his thumb, right next to the scars that streaked up his face.

“What gives you the impression I miss Geralt?” 

“That was a love song. It’s about him, isn’t it? I heard the emotion in your voice.”

“Yeah, it’s a love song, but I wasn’t thinking about him.” Jaskier kissed Eskel’s cheek where he had just been touching it. “I’ve been singing songs about love my entire career. But I saw you sitting out there, watching me, and…” he paused, getting a little choked up. “It was the first time I ever sang a love song knowing someone felt the same way about me.”

Eskel grinned, and despite the way the scars pulled at his smile - or maybe because of it - Jaskier stared at him in awe. “Gods, you’re gorgeous,” the musician said, almost breathless.

Eskel finished helping Jaskier get undressed and got him into bed. When he joined him just a few minutes later, Jaskier was already asleep, but that didn’t stop the bard from scooting closer. He laid his head on Eskel’s shoulder, pressed himself into his side, and draped his arm over his waist. It was like he was made to be there. 

  
  
  
  
  



	6. crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: crown; crowning; crowned
> 
> Author: @geralt's ample bosom (walli)
> 
> Prompt: crown
> 
> Geralt & Jaskier, Gen
> 
> This is basically just 700 words of Jaskier complaining. CW for non-graphic depiction of childbirth.

**crown** (verb)

  * to bestow something on as a mark of honor or recompense
  * to bring to a successful conclusion
  * in childbirth : to appear and begin to emerge headfirst or crown first at the vaginal opening 🙃



* * *

“Geralt, are you quite certain—”

“Yes.”

“—there’s not enough time to— _yes_ ? Yes _what_ ? I—right, pardon, have you _done_ this before?”

Geralt hums. “Goats. Dogs. Horse, once. It can’t—”

A guttural moan rips through the air, causing them both to flinch—well, Jaskier flinches, anyway. Geralt does the thing where his left eye twitches, just once, nigh imperceptible, which in Jaskier’s experience translates to approximately the same.

The woman in the grass at the side of the path breathes raggedly, skin glistening with sweat and nearly as bloodlessly pale as Geralt. The boy who’d been with her—a son, presumably, no more than ten or perhaps a very small twelve, though really, what does Jaskier know—had been sent scampering back towards civilization to fetch help. He could, in Jaskier’s private opinion, have perhaps stood to scamper just a teensy bit faster.

Which is not to pretend that Jaskier himself had ever been the most athletic of children—but, if Jaskier is being fair, he’s also never before been blessed with the company of such an imminently, urgently, _immediately_ expectant mother.

Jaskier hooks an arm around Geralt’s neck and draws him in close, for emphasis’ sake. “Witcher, dear, tell me you weren’t about to say something silly, like, ‘Jaskier, my most faithful friend, worry not; it couldn’t be that much different from birthing a dog or a goat _or a horse!’_ ”

Geralt’s left eye does the little twitch again, which is how Jaskier realizes he’s failed to contain the volume of his conspiratorial whisper.

“Right,” says Jaskier. “Fantastic. Well,” which is when the not-horse herself chimes in.

“Witcher,” she says, “you’ll cut it out of me,” and they both turn back to look at her. Jaskier draws himself up, mouth open, because _pregnant or no_ —but no, Geralt knuckles him hard in the ribs, and so Jaskier simply deflates, scowling.

The woman takes a shuddering breath and says, “If,” and then her whole body tenses up, voice breaking into another pained groan. When she lies back again and looks up at them, panting, it’s neither hatred nor fear on her face, but something altogether more alarming. “If I can’t,” she tries again, then squeezes her eyes shut and says, “Please—whatever it takes.”

* * *

Jaskier will, of course, embellish the tale with quite a bit more fanciful prose and quite a lot less viscera when he sings it at a later date. The poetry practically writes itself: the bringer of death, delivering life; the babe bourne gently in the jaws of the wolf...

What actually happens is this:

Desperate pleas transition into curses within short order. 

The woman’s name is Olesia, and from Olesia’s lips outpours a stream of such explicit profanity that Jaskier would admittedly have likely found it hot under more favorable circumstances. 

Geralt, as well, says regrettable things—horrible, upsetting things, such as, “Jaskier, just sing. Sing something,” and, “That’s—I can see the head,” and perhaps the worst of all, “Jaskier, take off your shirt.”

Which, again, might be nice were it not for the context. 

Jaskier’s second-favorite blue doublet is _ruined_.

Still, Jaskier sings the entire time Olesia does her damndest to break every bone in his hand. At the end, she lets go, and there’s a lull, and Jaskier looks up to find Geralt with an armful of mottled flesh and gore—not in itself an unusual sight, but then Geralt is _cleaning_ the gore, wide-eyed, with what remains of Jaskier’s doublet, and the gore is _crying_ , and—

Oh. There’s a baby.

The baby is—well, it’s disgusting. Jaskier supposes he, too, was disgusting at that point in his own life, and is thankful to not remember it. Olesia’s head rests in his lap, and the baby on her chest, the both of them draped in Geralt’s cloak—and Geralt is off at the other side of the clearing, whispering secrets to Roach. 

Jaskier truly, adamantly, refuses to envy a horse.

“Your witcher,” says Olesia, “he’s called Geralt?"

“Indeed he is! The one and only White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia,” and despite everything, Jaskier smiles. “Would you like to hear how we met?”

Olesia says, “Hm,” and lays a kiss atop the baby’s head. 


	7. shape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: ship out; shape up
> 
> Author: @geralt's ample bosom (walli)
> 
> Prompt: shape
> 
> Geralt/Eskel, M for mature, temporary blindness

**shape** (noun)

  * spatial form or contour
  * the appearance of the body as distinguished from that of the face
  * the condition in which someone or something exists at a particular time



* * *

Despite his own predilection towards blunt honesty, Geralt can be a decent actor when need be—especially when the part he’s playing is, well. Himself.

He manages to fool Jaskier, at any rate, and they embrace and part ways as is custom for them, once the autumn chill sets in: Jaskier off to terrorize a fresh batch of students, and Geralt towards Kaer Morhen, to mark down yet another year wherein he has managed not to die.

The real trick this time will be actually getting there, more so even than usual—but he has Roach, and the rest of his senses, and coin enough to supply and carry them through to the last village en route, provided he conducts himself wisely. He knocks back half a dose of Swallow and tightens his cloak around his shoulders, trusting Roach to follow the beaten path until directed otherwise.

Geralt of Rivia is blind.

* * *

“...faceful of archespore venom. It’s temporary,” Geralt insists—mumbles, really, caught between Eskel’s hands, immovable and burning-hot on either side of his frostbitten face. 

“How long ago?” asks Vesemir, further ahead; one of Eskel’s calloused thumbs pets across Geralt’s cheek when he flinches.

Geralt had  _ not _ fooled the rest of the Wolves—not one bit, not for even a moment. “Three weeks,” he admits. “Nearly a month,” and Eskel inhales sharply and slumps, sliding his hands down the back of Geralt’s neck to draw him that much closer. 

Off in the corner, Lambert curses, and Vesemir says nothing at all.

* * *

“It’s  _ temporary, _ ” Geralt swears, one hand wrapped ‘round the meat of Eskel’s hip, where his fingertips follow the rhythmic flex of Eskel’s ass as he rides him. 

Geralt's other hand splays along Eskel’s front, thumbing through the fine trail of hair on his belly before sliding up to tweak a nipple, just to hear Eskel’s breath catch. 

It  _ is _ temporary, is the thing; Geralt is nigh certain of it. He’d been able to tell bright light from dark by the time he’d made it halfway up the mountain, and these days he can even see shapes—blurry, amorphous shapes, but still. It means he can see the dim movement when Eskel reaches out to cup a hand over Geralt’s eyes and chuckle at him, rumbling low and fond. “Rest, you goon. It really  _ won’t _ be temporary if you keep straining, and then what? The old man’ll have us all training in blindfolds every winter right up ‘til his own eyes go.”

Geralt grins into the blackness, arching into Eskel’s heat and tossing his head back to shake off the stray hand and catch it between his teeth. He gives Eskel a teasing lick and lets him have his hand back, so he can steady himself on Geralt’s chest when Geralt bucks into him again,  _ hard _ .

Eskel groans, “Fuck, Wolf,” and doesn’t fight when Geralt manhandles him over, flipping their positions and mouthing at Eskel’s neck, savoring the salt of him. He slides back in with one long stroke. “Ah—!”

“You’re just sore you haven’t beat me yet,” Geralt says, thrusts falling into a steady rhythm. Eskel threads a hand through his hair and tugs. 

“I’m sore you think your head start means you get to brag.” He tightens his fist in Geralt’s hair, and lays a soft kiss against his temple. “Have a care.”

* * *

Jaskier screeches loudly enough that every head in the tavern turns to look at them, the first time he sees Geralt’s little round spectacles.


	8. farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: @geralt's ample bosom (walli)
> 
> Prompt: farm
> 
> Geralt & Ciri, Gen, AU (modern with magic), grieving, unexpected parenthood

**farm** (noun)

  * a plot of land, usually with a house, barn, silo, etc., devoted to agricultural purposes



**farm** (verb)

  * to cultivate
  * to raise



* * *

It’s not where Geralt ever expected to end up spending his retirement; hell, it’s not as if Geralt ever planned to _retire_. But two horrific accidents, several sensational news headlines, and one panicked phone call to Vesemir later, Geralt finds himself loading the combined entirety of his and Ciri’s worldly possessions into the back of his beat-up pickup truck—and it should say something, oughtn’t it, that all of it fits in with room leftover to spare—and absconding with her to the old family farm at the base of the Blue Mountains.

“Family farm,” of course, is a generous term; none of them have actually lived there at any time within the past decade or so, and neither of them is any sort of blood kin to any of the others. He and his brothers and Vesemir are the last living dregs of the Wolf school, though, and pack is pack is pack, no matter how the miles or the years stretch between them. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Vesemir still held the deed to the old place—and, he supposes in hindsight, he wasn’t. It’s more like gratitude, he imagines: gratitude and silver-steel determination, and above all hope that he and Cirilla can finally, finally get some peace.

* * *

It takes a few days’ worth of hard labor just to whip the farmhouse into a habitable state, and several more on top of that before he can even begin to imagine it as someday being fit to house a princess. Ciri herself doesn’t seem to mind, though, throwing herself into the endeavor right alongside Geralt with a fervor that maybe ought to worry him more, were he not also busy constructing the literal roof above her head. 

At least they’ve escaped the paparazzi.

Geralt would be the first to admit he has no fucking clue what he’s doing, although he doesn’t exactly feel the need to do so, seeing as it’s obvious. He likes to think once they get the house under control, they can dig a little herb garden out back—maybe fix up the barn, or the chicken coop.

Maybe he’ll teach her to fight.

The first time he finds Ciri sobbing her eyes out, crumpled on the wet kitchen floor with a white-knuckle grip on the broken mop handle, his gut drops in about the same way it had when he’d first realized what it meant for him that Calanthe and Eist both were dead. 

In order, he: 

1) panics,

then: 

2) despairs, 

then: 

3) treads towards her, slowly and softly, as though she’s a wild animal that he’s trying desperately not to spook. He gets down onto his own knees beside her and lays each of his hands over hers, patiently waiting until she relaxes her grip and lets him lay the mop down on the floor. 

They sit like that for a while, just holding hands, cold, soapy water seeping into their clothes. Ciri lays her head against Geralt’s shoulder as her sobs give way to quiet sniffles. 

Geralt can typically tell when someone’s expecting him to speak; the problem for him has always been figuring out the correct thing to say. “We can drive into town and get pizza for dinner...if you want,” is what he settles on.

Ciri huffs, trembling quiet laughter, and lets out one more hiccupping sob before nodding _yes_ and turning to wipe her snotty, wet face against his sleeve. 

Geralt loves her more than he’s ever loved anything in his entire long life.


	9. window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit  
> Pairing: Lambert x Geralt  
> Prompt: Window  
> Title: You’re Looking.  
> Author: @Hailie (HailHailSatan)  
> Summary: Lambert wants to hide his embarrassment as he can’t stop staring at Geralt, before the wolf asks him to look.  
> Tags: Consensual voyeurism, masturbation.

Lambert almost choked on his drink when Geralt walked into the kitchen, topless with hair wet and dripping onto the floor like he had the whole keep to himself.

“What?”

Geralt grabbed a mug to get himself water, looking at Lambert’s scandalised face.

“What do you mean, what? Cover yourself up, Pretty Boy, Gods. I’m trying to keep this drink down.”

He could see Geralt smirk as he got some water, and Lambert would be lying if the full image didn’t send a shiver down his body making his breath hitch. Geralt walked over to the table, standing over Lambert as he rolled his eyes.

“You don’t have to look you know.”

“I wasn’t- I mean I didn’t, I-”

Lambert flustered angrily until he eventually stood up, pushing past Geralt to go back to his room, knowing he’d answered too quickly. He slammed his door behind him, something that the rest of the wolves were familiar with. It was incredible that the hinges hadn’t broke by now.

He threw himself onto the bed with an aggravated sigh. Lambert hadn’t had many years on the path, and each time he came home, Geralt was the person he was most excited to see. But there wasn’t many of them left at the keep, and jeopardising their friendship between any of them was off the table, especially since Lambert had barely had a conversation with Geralt beyond their job, never mind admitting any feelings. So any time they were left alone, Lambert felt himself being short and angry with him, just so that he could keep it hidden. If everyone thought that it was down to him “just being Lambert” then that would have to be it.

Fully horizontal and face in the pillow, he heard a knock at his door. He sat up confused before asking them to come in. Geralt, fully clothed this time, thank Gods, with his hair messily tied up on the top of his head, peered round the door.

“Can I come in?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Lambert internally cursed himself when he saw Geralt’s face drop slightly. He stood awkwardly against the now closed door, playing with his hands.

“I didn’t um, mean to make you uncomfortable earlier.”

He looked up from his thumbs, making eye contact. Lambert’s stomach dropped seeing Geralt look upset. All he wanted to do was run over and say it was okay, but it would be “out of character”, ruin the persona he’d made up to keep him at arm's length.

“That it?”

It was pained, and something told him Geralt could sense it. The way he looked back. It was new.

“I, yeah, well, hmm. I’m sorry. You can look wherever you want it’s your keep too.”

Lambert drew in a quiet breath, the earlier image of Geralt imprinted in his head. Geralt definitely heard that.

“I told you... I wasn’t looking.”

The tension in the air grew awkward as both men’s voices became quieter. Silence in the room that was maybe seconds felt like minutes. Both of them anxious to hint at something and too worried to be the first.

“I know! I know. I just mean, if you were... looking... That would be... fine too. You don’t need to. Or have to. But you can keep your eyes any place you want. Is what I mean.”

Lambert broke the eye contact first, scratching at his neck trying to make any other sound than the sound of their hearts racing in the room.

“I- okay you said sorry I accept. Your keep, my keep, everyone’s fuckin’ keep. If I want to watch you cook dinner or stroke your fuckin’ dick it’s mine to look at you made your point. Fuck, you take so long to speak.”

Geralt coughed like he’d choked on the air, hiding the fact his face was heating up at a rapid pace. The smell in the air of nervousness quickly turning to an embarrassing smell of arousal that neither Witcher could pretend wasn’t there. But they absolutely were going to.

“Good. Okay.”

Geralt turned round and made for the door, before pausing. He didn’t look at Lambert as he spoke, in fear of the response.

“Well... on that note... if you do want to... look, somewhere, in the near future, or not look. I might be in the stables in an hour. Okay bye. Sorry.”

And he left.

Lambert’s breath caught in his lungs as he stared at the empty space where Geralt stood. Fuck, okay, stables in an hour. Just to look.

An hour later, Lambert made his way down to the stables, his heart in his chest wondering what was going to happen next. He knew, or more, he knew what he wanted to happen next, but didn’t want to jinx it. He wasn’t sure if he was cold or nervous, but the hairs were definitely standing on end all over his body. He reached out to open the door of the stables before panic overtook him. What if this was all a joke? What if he got in there and him and Eskel were waiting to laugh at him for turning up? He wiped his nervous hands on his trousers and remembered the scent in the room from earlier. There was no faking that. This was real, and it was happening.

As silently as he could, he wandered into the stable. It was a large space that smelled of wood, hay and their horses. But beyond that, faintly, he could smell that smell again. Geralt. He almost couldn’t walk, the anticipation overwhelming. He moved up the middle of the stalls, trying not to disturb the horses which would alert Geralt of his presence too quickly. He wanted to assess the situation first. As he got nearer the back, the smell grew stronger, but it wasn’t the smell that convinced him of

what was happening. It was the small, back of the throat whine that was only for Lambert to hear. He almost doubled over, the muscles at the bottom of his stomach tensing as his cock twitched in his trousers. Oh fuck. Real. This was real. He moved into the stall adjacent to the back room, a room filled with equipment for farming and for the horses. He pressed his back against the wall so that he couldn’t be seen, but could see through the small window on the wooden wall separating them, and looked.

There, amongst the bales of hay scattered on the floor, Geralt lay with his trousers round his ankles. An awkward leg up as far as it could go with the way his clothes were, and a hand wrapped round his cock. His head was tilted back with his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth slightly open. The kitchen scene quickly forgotten as this image was burned into his brain immediately. He watched him, holding his breath for as long as he could, trying not to make a sound. He couldn’t trust himself to even exhale. He wondered what Geralt was thinking of, studying Geralt’s face as it twisted and beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his white hair that had fallen from the earlier knot at the top now sticking to his face in glorious curls. It became apparent fairly quickly what he was thinking about as “Lambert...” fell from his lips.

Lambert let all of his breath go at once and he stumbled forward, the hay underneath him crunching louder than if a horse had taken some in its mouth and shouted “YUM!”

Geralt opened his eyes but didn’t turn his head, his chest rising as he filled his lungs with excited air.

They both stilled, panting. Lambert steadied himself again and watched as Geralt closed his eyes, settling back further into the hay. He ran a thumb over his cockhead making his back arch before biting his lip, then with a long sigh, went back to stroking himself. Lambert put one hand on the wall, his breath now steaming up the glass as he used his other hand to undo his own trousers. The feeling of taking himself in his hand being a relief to his whole body. He copied the older wolf’s pace, watching his hand and imagining it round his own cock. The maddening speed that Geralt was going at was almost making him whimper, but he wasn’t ready to let himself make noise yet. Geralt took his other arm out from under his neck, and trailed his hand down his torso, lifting his shirt slightly at the bottom as he moved up inside. Lambert couldn’t see since he was still clothed, but the rise of his knuckles over his chest and the bucking of his hips when the movement was made was indication enough. Lambert’s head fell forward onto the glass as he couldn’t help but go faster.

After both of them picked up speed, their moaning grew louder too, neither witcher trying to hide the enjoyment of what was going on. The wooden wall beneath Lambert’s fingers now hand 5 little dents in it from his nails digging into it. He could feel himself coming close, but he had to wait, he wanted to see Geralt first.

Geralt lowered is free hand again, this time moving down to cup his balls as his stomach muscles convulsed at a rapid rate. He lifted his head to look down before throwing it back again, unable to keep himself steady. His legs were spread now, both knees wide as he bucked up into his hand. Lambert watched him pause for a minute then gulped. He stared, with wide eyes as Geralt gathered some of the pre-cum that was running down his cock, and proceeded to move his hand in between his legs. From the angle Lambert was at, he couldn’t be sure, but Gods, the way Geralt started moving again he was pretty certain.

Lambert watched as Geralt’s thighs started to tense. His jaw went wide as he arched his back and neck, pressing his head as far back as it would go. Lambert wanted to see everything, moving quickly from Geralt’s squeezed shut eyes and his shaking jaw, down to his cock that was shooting ropes of cum onto his shirt. Before he collapsed back onto the ground, Lambert couldn’t hold himself back

any longer. As the cum pulsed onto the wall in front of him, he mouthed Geralt’s name over and over again, trying as hard as he could to keep his eyes open and look at the fucked out white wolf in his post orgasm haze.

As he started to calm down, barely able to stay standing on his shaky legs, the mess on the wall and the steamed-up window brought him back to reality. He laced his trousers back up and waited for a moment. Both of them as anxious as they were in Lambert’s room before. Lambert quickly bolted out of the stable before Geralt stood up.

He ran back to his room, slamming the door behind him, only this time, he stood with his back against the wall. A million images running through his mind, unable to focus on each one, before like earlier, his door was chapped. Only this time, Lambert answered it.

He opened the door to Geralt, out of breath and wide eyed.

“Can I-”

Was the only words that came out before Lambert surged forward, pulling him in for a kiss. Geralt wrapped his arms round him, as they nervously tasted each other for the first time.

When they broke apart, Lambert smiled with his kissed red lips.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me.”

Both of them laughed before Lambert pulled him into his room, closing the door behind them both.


	10. bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sit Nice  
> Author: @Hailie (HailHailSatan)  
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier  
> Prompt: Bells  
> Summary: Geralt gets Jaskier cuffs and a collar that have bells on them so that he can hear when he moves. CW/Tags: Dom Geralt, Sub Jaskier, kitten play/petplay, kitten Jaskier, explicit consent and consent discussion, fluff with implied horny.

Jaskier sat silently on the bundle of furs in their bedroom in the keep, rubbing his face against Geralt’s leg as the witcher tried to fasten the collar round his neck.

“Jask, pet, sit still for a minute while I get this buckled.”

Geralt pulled him back by the top of his loose shirt, but he only stayed still for a few seconds before he went back to rubbing his face on Geralt’s inner legs, making him giggle. Once the collar was on with much fuss, the little bell started to ring as he moved. Geralt crouched down to eye level with him. While he spoke, Jaskier gave him little kitten licks to his chin and behind his ear.

“Okay, look at me kitten, eye contact.”

Jaskier leaned back on his heels, his eyes wide, while Geralt pushed his tongue back into his mouth, grinning at his cute little pet.

“I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll bring food back later for you. While we all eat, no pets allowed at the dinner table, do you understand?”

Jaskier exaggeratedly nodded his head, the little bell ringing instantly making him hide his face with a blushing smile. Geralt stroked his head and Jaskier pushed his face into the touch.

“I have something else here for you too.”

Geralt brought out two little cuffs for Jaskier’s wrists and proceeded to put them on for him. The cuffs also had little bells on them.

“I’ll just be down the hall; the doors stay open and you’ve to sit nice for me while I'm gone. If you get up to move, or move those little paws because you can’t wait half an hour for me to come back, I’ll hear you.”

Jaskier whined knowing exactly what that meant. He had been scolded before when Geralt walked in on him playing with himself, unable to wait for Geralt to get back from dinner. His brow furrowed and his nose scrunched up.

“Half an hour, kitten. I know it’s hard but you know the rules, no pets when we’re eating. Give me words sweetheart, do you understand, are you happy?”

Jaskier was always silent in kitten space, but if they needed consent or to check on each other throughout, they could always ask. Silence was just extra fun, never a rule.

“Yes, Sir. I can sit nice.”

Geralt sat down on the furs with his kitten, letting Jaskier climb on him, his tongue darting out instantly. The bells ringing out round the room.

When Geralt was called for dinner, he bundled Jaskier up, scritching him, then left the room. He was sat for only 15 minutes before he heard soft bells from down the hall. He looked up from his plate towards the direction of the noise. The bells began to get louder, and jingled faster, before Geralt stood up from the table. It was in this moment where he’d realised that instead of the bells being a form of restraint for his kitten, he had accidentally given Jaskier a means of begging for attention from a different room.

He stood in the doorframe, looking at Jaskier with a tilted head.

“You’re a nuisance, kitten.”

Jaskier bit his lip and shook his head. Geralt held out his hand.

“You can sit at my feet at the table until I’m finished. You’re spoiled.”


	11. form

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Stirring the Pot   
> Author: @Hailie (HailHailSatan)  
> Pairing: Geraskier but from Lambert & Eskel’s pov   
> Prompt: form Tags: fluff

“Eskel! Come see this!”

Lambert shouted through the keep, gaining a low growl from Geralt. Eskel eventually came outside to see what was happening. He stood beside Lambert who was laughing, leaning against the wall, watching Geralt point at different parts of the sword Jaskier was holding.

“What’s going on?”

Eskel took up a place next to Lambert. Lambert hushed him immediately when Jaskier and Geralt started talking again, then pointed over to their direction.

“YOUR FORM ISN’T RIGHT.”

“WELL, SHOW ME.”

Lambert opened his hand to offer some pine nuts, which Eskel looked at and grimaced at the idea of them being warm from Lambert’s hand, then declined.

“Some real oblivious Geralt shit going on here right now. It’s funny.”

Geralt took the sword from Jaskier, for the 4th time, and stood beside him.

“Like this. Your feet are too close together, you’ll topple over if you stand like that. And you can’t be bent over like... that. Here. Try again.”

Jaskier took the sword and stood exactly the same way, if not in a worse position than the previous one.

“Like this?”

Lambert almost spat out the food in his mouth with laughter. He’d been watching Jaskier everyday using different methods to try and get Geralt to see he was flirting. Each scheme grander than the last. It was proving to be brilliant entertainment for the winter.

Geralt stood rigid, moving his hands in front of the sword trying not to touch it or Jaskier but also trying to move them. An impossible task.

“No. Not like that. You’ve not even moved! You have to fix your form.”

“Well you and I must have different definitions of what form means, Geralt. Because you aren’t making sense at all.”

Lambert shouted across from where he was standing, his mouth full, stirring the pot with his metaphorical spoon.

“Yeah, Geralt! How’s he supposed to know if you won’t show him?”

Eskel gave him a jab in the ribs with his elbow.

“What?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is.”

Geralt moved behind Jaskier, more flustered than ever, and wrapped his arms round the bard without actually touching him. His arms hanging in the air, trying to show Jaskier the moves. Then, he pressed his body against the bards back, his head over Jaskier’s shoulder, and moved his hands onto the sword properly. Jaskier stuttered, his bluff well and truly called, as Geralt moved away to admire the proper form.

“That’s more like it. You look... perfect. I mean great. I mean good, fine. Your form’s good.”

“Yeah- uh, thanks. You too.”

Jaskier blurted out, before realising it wasn’t a favour he could actually return.

They stood staring at each other, a moment that they’d obviously remember. A perfect, realisation of what they both wanted. Before Geralt had the chance to lean in, Lambert was yoinked into the keep by his shirt collar.

“OI! What was that for?”

“It’s rude to stare. Go and do some work, you’ve done nothing all day but eat snacks and be a pain in the arse.”

Eskel laughed before walking off, leaving Lambert in a mood for being removed from the opportunity to shout something to wind the new lovebirds up with. Another time hopefully, he thought.


	12. route

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Route Home  
> Author: @Hailie (HailHailSatan)  
> Pairing: Vesemir x Jaskier  
> Prompt: Route  
> Tags/CW: Modern AU Daddy/Sugar Daddy Vesemir, Sugar baby Jaskier, Daddy as honorific pet name, humour/fluff.

Jaskier hadn’t realised the time until the shutters were going down at the coffee shop he was in, the clatter of the metal making him check his phone.

“Oh, bollocks.”

It was half 5, and he had 5 missed calls. He had said he was going straight home after work, but with two very full shopping bags and a new fur coat on, it was obvious he had let the time get away from him.

“Caramel frappe?”

Jaskier looked up from his phone.

“Yes, sorry, thanks.”

He took a sip from the cold drink and made his way outside where it had already started getting dark. Dark enough that he didn’t need sunglasses, but wore them anyway. He swiped through his phone to find Vesemir, then with a knot in his stomach, hit call.

“Hello?”

He was calm. Too calm for five missed calls.

“Um, hi, daddy. Slight hold up after work, I’m really, super sorry I didn’t call you. I’m on my way now, but I’m okay.”

His sweetest voice that was very well practiced being put to good use.

“Okay, see you soon.”

Oh. Oh. An unexpectedly light toned response put Jaskier on edge.

He got a taxi back to the house, handsomely tipping the driver who then carried his bags to the door. He pressed a well-manicured finger to the door bell, before quickly hiding his nails in his palms. Shit. Vesemir opened the door and looked at the picture in front of him.

“Did you miss me?”

The doe eyed brunette, biting his lip, waited for his response. Vesemir raised an eyebrow before holding the door for him.

“Hmm, what happened then little bird, was it a-”

Vesemir looked Jaskier up and down, from his new Jacket to the bags and coffee in his hand, holding back a laugh.

“...traffic issue?”

Jaskier gulped, before taking his sunglasses off and sitting them on the table next to the empty frappe cup.

“Um...”

Vesemir stood behind Jaskier and without mentioning it, began to help him take the heavy coat from his shoulders.

“It’s funny, I can’t remember there being a Costa or...” Vesemir looked at the name on the bag before continuing.

“a River Island on the route you normally take home.”

Jaskier started to blush.

“Well... the bus I normally get was, um, cancelled today.”

“Cancelled? Oh no that’s awful. I saw you pull up in a taxi, could they not take you straight home, sweetheart?”

Jaskier pulled his lips into a thin line, squinting his eyes. Vesemir wasn’t going to give up. The older man guided him onto his lap on the couch. He stroked Jaskier’s hair out of his face as he stuttered his answer back. Vesemir nodded at each word like Jaskier had had an incredibly rough day.

“Um, no, I forgot the number and I had to get... I had to get the taxi number from the, um, person who worked in River Island. And then...”

“mmhm, keep going.”

Vesemir took one of Jaskier’s hands in his, quickly running a thumb over his polished nails, to which he couldn’t help but let a small chuckle out at the story Jaskier was trying to weave, before Jaskier pulled his hand back trying to hide it.

“well, then, I was already in the shop so I might have, picked up a few things. And then I was a bit thirsty because of the wait for the bus, so I got a little drink.”

Jaskier looked round the room, everywhere but Vesemir’s face.

“My poor, poor bird, one little question.”

“Mmhm?”

Jaskier’s voice cracked as he responded.

“Do you know when you use the card I gave you, Sweetheart, that I can see what you spend and what time you spend it at?”

Jaskier stayed totally silent.

“So, what route did you take today?”

Jaskier turned in Vesemir’s lap to look at him this time.

“Now that I think about it, I...”

“Hmm I thought so. Don’t lie to me Jaskier, I was worried about you today.”

“I’m sorry, daddy, I lost track of time I really didn’t mean it.”

“Well, you’ll know for next time, won’t you? That card is a privilege little bird, you’re taking some of that stuff back for your behaviour today.”

Jaskier immediately pressed his face into Vesemir’s neck.

“NO, DADDY I SAID I WAS SORRY! Please?! You haven’t even seen the cute things I bought! I’ll do anything! Please don’t make me take anything back.”

Vesemir held the spoiled man in his arms as he pleaded and clutched to his body.

“I’ll see them when we decide together what’s going back to the shop. You can keep two things. The rest goes back tomorrow.”

Jaskier grumbled into his neck.

“This is a mean punishment.”

“Do you want to take it all back?”

Jaskier huffed and settled down, his eyebrows knitted together.

“What have you learned?”

“I shouldn’t lie, and I should keep in contact with you when I said I would.”

Vesemir cuddled Jaskier a bit closer, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“I mean it Jask, I was really worried about you today. I’ve told you before, you can go shopping whenever you like, I don’t mind. That’s what the card’s there for. But you need to tell me where you are. I was scared.”

Jaskier brought his legs up onto the couch, fully bundled into Vesemir’s arms.

“I really am sorry, Daddy. I was being spoiled and lost track of time. I’ll tell you what way I’m coming home next time, I promise. I love you.”

“I love you too little bird. Maybe, maybe I’ll let you keep 3 things.”

They both smiled, and stayed wrapped up together.

**Author's Note:**

> Ren @[BlueJayCalling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJayCalling/pseuds/BlueJayCalling)  
> Walli @[melonkollie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonkollie)  
> Hailie @[Hailhailsatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hailhailsatan/pseuds/Hailhailsatan)


End file.
